(no subject)
day after day, my love turns gray, like the skin of a dying man. and night after night, we pretend its alright, but i have grown older and you have grown colder and nothing is very much fun anymore. i can feel another one of my turns coming on, and i feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum. run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left, you'll find my favorite axe. dont look so frightened, this is just a passing phase, one of my bad days. would you like to watch t.v.? or get between the sheets? or contemplate the silent freeway? would you like something to eat? would you like to learn to fly? would ya? would you like to see me try?? would you like to call the cops? do you think its time i stopped? why are you running away?